Time Out Page 5

  “I’ll drop by after the boys leave and update you on Donny if you’d like.”

  “I would appreciate that.” This time I do a better job of it because I mean it.

  ✘

  Somehow we three survivors of the fray make it through until home time. I call Cory’s house and leave a message about the fight so his mother will know where the lump came from. I don’t expect to hear from her. I imagine this is small compared to some of the phone calls she’s received in the past.

  I’m just hanging up the phone when Mrs. Callahan pops her head in.

  “Mr. Norton is back and wants to talk to us about Donny.”

  He wants to talk to both of us? My stomach does a little pitch.

  He’s already standing in Mrs. Callahan’s office when we walk in. His eyes are grave and my stomach flips the rest of the way over.

  “So, things didn’t go quite as planned.”

  “Oh, how so?” Mrs. Callahan asks in what sounds like a less than totally concerned tone. I suspect her stomach is just fine.

  “Well, as I told you, I contacted Children’s Services, who agreed to send a social worker. I was expecting that to happen later on today, but the worker arrived at the same time as Donny and I did. His mother was already unhappy enough that some board office guy was bringing her son home, and so she basically went off the rails when social services showed up.”

  “Did she hurt Donny?” My voice comes out smaller and higher than usual.

  “Um…no. Actually, she took on the social worker instead. One good hit to the side of the head. Left hook, I think.” He smiles a little ruefully, and I bark out a particularly lady-like laugh. Mrs. Callahan looks at both of us with an extremely disapproving stare.

  “That must have been interesting for you,” I say, trying to sound professional again. Hard to do after impersonating a dog. Can you impersonate a dog?

  “Well, actually it was pretty hairy. The social worker called the police, and when they arrived, she took Donny into care.”

  “What?” I’m barking again.

  “The social worker wants the mom charged with assault. She deemed the situation volatile and said that Donny is at risk. She’s taking him to a temporary foster home.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. It will be so much nicer for him than living with that woman.” Mrs. Callahan smiles as if we’ve just heard that Donny is going to Disneyland.

  “But he loves his mother. He talks about her all the time. He’ll be devastated! It’s not like she hurt him!” A few hours ago I was the one worrying about sending him home to that woman, and now I’m defending her. If I’m this confused, how must Donny be feeling?

  “There’s nothing we can do. There’ll be an investigation. This isn’t the end of it. And I don’t know what the truth is about Donny and his mom. Maybe now we’ll find out.” Norton’s voice is grim.

  “Well, I think all’s well that ends well.” Mrs. Callahan is obviously ready to put a lid on this conversation. “Thank you for your help. I think we all need to go home and have a bit of a rest. You’ll have your new class and your new EA on Monday.” She’s obviously saying the last part to me, but she’s looking at him and smiling that special smile she saves for people who come from the board office. He’s looking at me. I shake my head slightly. It’s amazing how quickly things get done around here when Callahan is trying to be impressive.

  “They’re hoping to find a foster home within range of here so he can continue with you. We’ll know more about that next week. He’ll likely be away for a day or two.”

  “Okay thanks, Mr. N,” I say, using the boys’ diminutive of his name.

  “I think we can graduate to a first-name basis by now. It’s Daniel, in case you’ve forgotten.” I hope he’s kidding and doesn’t realize that I actually did forget his name. Daniel is nicer than Norton, I guess.

  He smiles at me, and then heads out of the room.

  He has a kind smile.

  I think I’m going to cry.

  Chapter 7

  Daddy’s gone; do you want a troll?

  All weekend, images of Donny invade my mind. What is he going through? What must it feel like to suddenly be told you can’t be at home with your own mother? That you have to go and stay at a stranger’s house until some other stranger tells you what your future holds. To have your whole life turned upside down and inside out in the blink of an eye.

  Or the swing of a punch.

  All because your teacher wasn’t smart enough to figure out how to stop you from swinging your own punch at school.

  I wonder about Donny’s mother and why she would risk punching a social worker. Is she a bad mom, or was she just angry? Does she hurt Donny or just interfering agents of the system? What would I have done in her position? How would I feel if someone came here to my home and tried to tell me how to raise my children?

  I have a sudden image of little girls begging for juice while their mothers ignore them. I try to remember. Did I ever do that with my girls, or did I at least get that part right?

  I certainly don’t get it all right.

  I couldn’t even stay married for them, managing instead to sentence them to life in a broken family.

  When my Humpty-Dumpty marriage got to the point where so many pieces were missing that it could never be put back together again, I started making plans. Plans are important. They keep life organized and predictable. They give you focus. Setting goals and striving to achieve them form structures out of chaos.

  I planned out my divorce as only an A-type personality can. I read—no devoured—every article I could find on the right way to do a divorce. I carefully scrutinized data on custody arrangements, trying to discover which one would have the least impact on my kids. I read everything I could on separation agreements and how to amicably and quickly come to consensus with your former life partner turned adversary. How not to be adversaries at all, so you can have a friendly divorce.

  Friendly divorce.

  Friendly fire.

  I read everything. I thought about everything. I planned everything. I had it all figured out.

  Decision number one was that the girls were going to remain living with me full-time. Their dad was going to move out and visit regularly. Consistency is the key to a successful divorce for children. This I know because I heard it on a radio talk show.

  Decision number two was that Dad was going to move all of his things out while the girls were at school and daycare so that they didn’t have to watch it happen.

  Decision number three was that Mommy and Daddy were going to sit down and tell our three-year-old and her seven-year-old sister in simple, compassionate terms why we could no longer live together. Why, even though we loved them more than anything in the world, we still couldn’t figure out how to love each other enough to give them a normal family life. Why life didn’t work out the way any of us had planned. Why Daddy was going to live in another place and how special that would be because they could visit him there and have two homes. How exciting to have two homes!

  I have also told my children, repeatedly, that a large man dressed in red somehow manages to squeeze down our very small chimney every 24th of December and that an equally large rabbit hops around our house once a year throwing chocolate eggs everywhere and that the rule about talking to strangers is suspended every 31st of October, so long as you’re dressed in a strange costume and begging for candy.

  For years when I was little, I worried about children without chimneys and thought that rabbits laid eggs.

  I rehearsed what I was going to say by the hour. “Girls, your daddy and I love you so very much.” That’s always the opening line. Common sense and pretty much all of the articles I read agree on that one.

  “We both love being with you and living here with you more than you will ever know. Mommi
es and daddies always, always, always love their children.” I added all of the “always” myself. Emphasis is important when devastating children.

  “Mommies and daddies love each other too, but sometimes they have trouble living together even though they still always, always, always love their children.” I read somewhere, many somewheres, that children sometimes blame themselves for their parents’ divorce. It’s important to reiterate your Mommy-and-Daddy love for them as separate from your grown-up love for each other. Grown-up love is brittle, fragile stuff, easily shattered. Mommy-and-Daddy love is pliable, timeless, and completely indestructible.

  Donny’s face flashes into my personal history for a second, and I wonder again about his mother. He obviously loves her. Does she love him?

  “But even if Mommy and Daddy don’t live together anymore, we are both still your parents, and we both love you very, very, very much.”

  Repetition to reduce the sting.

  “Daddy is going to live in a special apartment very close to our house so that he can see you all the time. You’ll see him almost as much as you do now. Everything will be fine.”

  And that fat guy with the beard is going to push a bike down the chimney this year.

  ✘

  It was on a relatively sunny day in April that the final piece of our shattered marital dream finally went missing—a morning that felt relatively normal. Boxes piled in the basement testified otherwise.

  On this relatively sunny April morning, the girls and I head off to work and school and daycare just like every other morning. They say good-bye to their dad just like every other morning, not knowing it’s the last time that this will happen just this way. Unless I change my mind.

  I turn my head, closing my eyes against the tears. This is the right thing to do. I know it is. They can’t live in this chaotic, angry household and be okay. This is the right thing to do. It is. I know it is.

  Repetition.

  I spend my work day in a fog. My mind and body seem mired in emotional quicksand, and I can’t force myself to move either one. I sit at my desk and try to look like I’m teaching, but I can barely see the kids. I should have taken the day off, but I somehow just assumed that I would be fine today. He’s coming home tonight to have “the talk” and everyone is going to be fine.

  Except that he just called to tell me he’s going to be late. I’m going to have to find a way to keep the girls busy until he gets home so that my oldest won’t see that parts of our life are missing. She notices details. I think she’s going to be an artist someday.

  The day drags to a close, and I sit alone at my desk, trying to figure out what to do now. I can’t just pick the girls up and head home.

  I’m starting to lose control of the plan.

  I sit for another fifteen minutes, then force myself up out of the chair to head over to the daycare. Both girls will be there by now.

  “Well, you’re nice and early today!” the daycare director says, forcing the cheerfulness through an artificial smile. She knows about us. I told her last week that this was coming, so she could watch the girls, especially my baby, for signs of distress.

  “Yes. I guess I am.”

  “Well, she had a pretty normal day—” she starts. But I interrupt.

  “They don’t know yet. I guess we’re telling them tonight.”

  “Oh, all right. Thanks for letting me know. I’m so sorry. About everything.”

  I can’t look at her. I know her eyes are brimming with sympathy, and I don’t think I can face that right now without curling up on a tiny cot and crying myself into a stupor.

  “Thanks.” I turn away and head to the pre-school room.

  “Mommy! I made you a picture!” She runs to me, sapphire eyes sparkling at me under her mop of blonde curls. This one is going to be a dancer or a singer or something full of life and energy that lives in the spotlight. Not that I plan their lives for them or anything.

  “That’s wonderful. Let’s go get your things and find your sister. I have a surprise for you.” Your father left us today, and now you only have me. Surprise!

  “Hi, Mom.” My seven-year-old looks up from her homework and smiles at us when we walk into the “After 4” program room. I don’t think I’d assign homework if I taught grade two, but I’ve never taught anyone that little, so I guess I’m not in a position to judge. But I do it anyway. They’re so little! Home time should be playtime. Work should be done at school.

  “Hey, sweetie. Grab your stuff. I’m taking you out for supper!”

  “Yay!” she says, running out to the coatroom to pack up her bag. I sign her out, and we head to the car.

  Driving to McDonald’s, the restaurant of choice, I try to listen to them chatting about their day while internally rehearsing my “Mommy and Daddy are splitting up” speech.

  We sit through chicken nuggets and Quarter Pounders. Well, just one Quarter Pounder, which goes into me, even though I’m not hungry. I need protein to face the rest of this day.

  “Do you want to go shopping?” I ask, knowing the answer full well.

  We head off in great excitement to shop for nothing in particular.

  I push the cart down the toy aisle, looking at my beautiful girls and wondering what’s going to happen when we get home. How are they going to react? How am I going to react? How am I going to sit there with their father and remember all of the words that I need to say? What if I forget? What if we get into an argument in front of them instead of presenting a united front and everyone starts to cry?

  I don’t know if I can do it. I can feel the Quarter Pounder dancing around in my gut as panic starts to set in.

  “So, girls, I have to tell you something. Daddy and I have decided that he has to live in a different house. He will live near us and still see you, but he won’t be at our house every day. We both really love you.”

  And that’s it. All my planning and I puke it out in the toy aisle in a department store.

  I didn’t say anything that was in my plan at all. One lame “We really love you.” No repetition. No real explanation. No father sitting beside me on the couch.

  I just did everything wrong.

  Perfect end to a perfect day. To an imperfect marriage.

  There’s a pause as number one processes the information. She looks at the floor for a second and then up at me with the world’s biggest, softest, tear-filled eyes. There’s a quick flash of something that I can’t identify. Sadness? Fear? Panic? Has the damage already begun?

  “Okay,” she says quietly, nodding her head slightly. She rubs her eyes for a second and then looks at me with a slight smile that makes my heart hurt. “Can we get trolls? The big kind that I saw on TV?”

  “I want a troll!” says number two, bouncing excitedly in the shopping-cart seat.

  Trolls. They want trolls.

  Definitely not one of the reactions I had anticipated. Then again, I never planned to break their hearts in the toy department, either.

  “Um, sure. Let’s check them out.” I wheel the cart up and down aisles until we find the big, plastic, ridiculously ugly troll dolls that every recent TV ad has told my children they absolutely must have. The same stupid-looking dolls that I had when I was a kid. We look at a minimum of a dozen before decisions are made and one pink-haired and one turquoise-haired doll are safely placed in the back of our cart.

  And that was it.

  Parent of the year strikes again.

  Daddy’s gone; do you want a troll?

  Chapter 8

  Monday, Monday

  “Hi. I’m Sean.”

  “Okay. Hi, Sean.” I look up at the young man standing in the doorway of my “new” classroom. New to me, but not to anyone else in this century. Mrs. Callahan has put me down in what we not-so-affectionately call “the Cave.” The Cave is a
series of classrooms in an old portable that was attached to the school back in the days of overpopulation. The only other class down there is our new group of junior kindergartners. I did question Mrs. Callahan on the wisdom of putting my students across from impressionable three- and four-year-olds, but she didn’t have an answer. She did, however, have a time-out room for me.

  “And here we have the best part,” she says with a flourish, opening the door to what looks like an old office of some description. It’s wood-paneled, with an ancient, musty rug on the floor. It smells awful and looks worse.

  “The best part?”

  “Yes. You mentioned to me that you felt a time-out room was in order. Here you go!”

  This is where she wants me to de-escalate frantic children? It would make a better torture chamber. Although, now that I think about it, that could be what Mrs. Callahan had in mind. I can imagine her wistfully remembering the good old days when teaching and parenting were based on the “spare the rod and spoil the child” philosophy.

  She has no children of her own. This is likely a very good thing.

  She’s looking at me expectantly. I think she wants a thank you. I can’t find one.

  “I’ll fix it up a bit and then I’m sure it will be…fine,” I manage. She looks mortally offended at my lack of enthusiasm.

  “I’ll leave you to it then,” she says, her false veneer of civility slipping away for the moment. She stalks off down the hall without another word. The kids are coming in about an hour, so I have about fifty-six minutes to set up a classroom that I can teach in.

  And now there’s this stranger standing in my doorway.

  I have no idea what he’s doing here. Obviously not a student. At least I hope not, because he looks about twenty.

  “I’m your new EA. Mrs. Callahan told me to come on down and introduce myself.”

  “Oh wow! Really? I completely forgot that I was getting someone. We had kind of a…day…on Friday, and I guess it slipped my mind.” Lots of things slipped my mind this weekend. Unfortunately, the one thing that didn’t was the endless string of images of what I imagine Donny’s face must have looked like as he processed the fact that he’s away from his mom. Even if she’s a “bad” mom by other people’s standards, he doesn’t see her that way, and I’m sure he’s horrified by the thought of having to live with perfect strangers.